


Just To See You Smile

by Dcgal814



Category: The Handmaid's Tale (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Chosen, Dad nick, Escape from gilead, F/M, Fluff and Angst, God help me I need all of this, Nick's smiles, One-Shots, We need more Nick, life in canada
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2019-11-01 11:37:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17866529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dcgal814/pseuds/Dcgal814
Summary: A series of intimate moments in which Nick smiles.  Because don't you think we all need more of those?? :)Starting from S1 through the end of S2 and beyond.**COMPLETE**





	1. Fun and Games

**Between 1x02 - 1x04**

 

It started as a survival strategy: seeing if I could make Nick smile.

 

Seeing if I could trust him.  Seeing what he would do, if he would report me for small indiscretions or if he would turn a blind eye.  

 

The tuna joke was the first, and I got my first smile.  A small one but it was there. I’ve counted 4 more since then, so 5 in total, and they’ve gotten progressively wider with each one.

 

And the black van hasn’t come for me yet.  

 

At some point, I realized I had stopped testing him, and I was just playing.  We’re playing a game together. And, unlike Scrabble with Waterford, this game is actually fun — and makes me smile too.  Real smiles, not strategic ones. On the outside they may look the same, but on the inside, the real ones somehow make me feel fuller and lighter at the same time.  I feel more like June and less like Offred.

 

At night, when I can’t sleep and don’t want to think about Hannah or Luke — or else I’d never be able to sleep — I lie in bed planning how I can make him smile next.  

 

He likes it when I make contemporary references.  Or is it past references, if the contemporary is now Gilead? Whatever the fuck it is, I can usually get a smile out of him that way.

 

While we were sitting alone at breakfast one day: “So how about them Sox, huh?”

 

That was Smile #3.  

 

I wonder if he likes the Red Sox.  Is he from Boston? I’ve never noticed an accent, but then again I don’t have one either.  

 

He’s been trying to get me to smile as well...I wonder if he lies in bed thinking about me too...

 

Today’s the day of my annual Pap smear.  Fucking Serena’s been reminding me about it all week.  Gotta make sure my uterus is in tip-top shape. Even though I resent it, I’m not gonna say no to an opportunity for me to get out of this wretched house.  Who would have ever thought getting a Pap smear would be the most exciting part of my day? Hell, my week? I swear, if there was a way for Serena to send just my uterus to the doctor and leave me home, she would, just to deprive me of this miniscule moment of escape.

 

As I walk down the stairs, I find the Bitch Queen herself standing with Nick, waiting for me by the front door.

 

_Please God, tell me she’s not coming with me._

 

“Offred, it just started raining so Nick will be driving you.”

 

And...my day just got more exciting.  

 

My eyes shift from hers to his, and somehow I just know that if Serena wasn’t here, and I had smiled right then, he would have smiled back.  It would have been Smile #6. He’s ripe for the picking. This should be fun.

 

Nick opens the front door and walks through first, popping open the umbrella before stepping to the side for me to join him underneath.  

 

When I hear the soft click of the door closing behind us, leaving us alone, I huddle closer to him, under the guise of avoiding the rain.  I honestly don’t mind the rain — but he doesn’t know that.

 

“Blessed day,” he says.  His head shifts slightly to the right in my direction, his eyes resting on a spot about 6 inches in front of me.  He wants to look at me but we’re standing too close together. It would be...too intimate.

 

“Blessed day,” I respond.  Neither of us have moved from the top of the stairs.  “We’ve been sent shitty weather.”

 

It’s the first time I’ve cursed around him.  The first time I’ve cursed in Gilead with anyone except Moira.  

 

His head moves sharply to face me this time, his eyes holding mine.  My breath hitches, and catches in my throat — maybe I went too far.

 

But then he laughs — the faintest and quickest of laughs.  It was there and gone before I know it, leaving only a smile behind in its wake.

 

I wasn’t expecting a laugh, hoping just for a smile...but, God help me, I could listen to him laugh all day.

 

I think I’ve just found my new game: seeing if I can make Nick laugh.


	2. Inside and Out

**1x06 through 1x08**

 

Nick’s bare chest rises and falls as he sleeps, and with it my right hand as it rests on top.  My head is nestled in the crook between his chest and arm, the smell of sex and sweat lingering on our bodies, still intertwined.  Outside of this room, we never touch. Here, we never stop touching. 

 

My fingers gently move down his chest to his abs and, using my index finger, I trace the outline of his six pack.  

 

He has a six pack.  And I never would have seen it had we not started our little secret affair.  It feels wrong to hide something so beautiful behind his guardian wardrobe. 

 

I can barely make out his abs under the pale light of the moon shining through the window above his bed, but I can feel his muscle underneath my finger — taut and strong.  And yet still so soft to my touch. 

 

Just like him. 

 

I keep telling myself it’s only sex — just a way for us to release tension, and find some pocket of pleasure in this painful world.  He has a beautiful body and a beautiful face, and he makes me feel beautiful too. But somewhere along the way, I began to see how beautiful he is underneath it all.  Even more beautiful inside than out, if that’s possible.

 

He’s kind.  I saw that first.  He went out of his way to show care to me, with the ice.

 

He’s selfless.  I see that every time I come to him.  He focuses entirely on me, making sure I feel pleasure -— at every moment, on every part of my body.  Between his lips, his hands, and his member, he gives me pleasure three different ways at once. Four if I count watching him in all of his beauty.  And I certainly do count it.

 

My hand glides from his abs to his own hand, resting on the blanket that covers up his lower body.  My eyes linger on a spot on the blanket, a few inches below his hand, and I feel a twinge of lust return, thinking of what’s hidden underneath.  It feels wrong to hide something so beautiful. He made me come twice tonight, and three times the other night, and yet somehow I want more. He should come with a warning: once you start, you can’t stop.  

 

With a sigh, my eyes drift back to his hand resting on the blanket, my fingers slowly moving from his wrist to his knuckles, then down his finger to his nail.  His hands are works of art. Muscular but slim. And then there’s what he can do with them…he’s an artist. I read somewhere once that art is supposed to make you feel something.  Well, his hands bring me to life. I am alive again, in my body. 

 

He makes me feel wonderful, and not just physically.  When we’re together, his entire mind, heart, and being are here with me.  Like I’m the only person in the world who matters. Like the world doesn’t even exist outside of these four walls.  

 

He makes me I feel special — worthy.  And it’s been so long since I’ve felt worthy for anything besides my uterus.  He hangs on my every word as if I were reciting Pablo Neruda. Like my words are works of art.  He looks at me as if  _ I _ were a work of art.  

 

He’s beautiful, inside and out.  And it feels wrong to hide something so beautiful.  Inside these four walls, behind the stoicism he carries on the outside.  

 

But he’d be eaten alive in Gilead if he were to show who he truly is.  

 

My heart clenches at the thought of anything happening to him.  And, despite what I try to tell myself, I know it’s not just worry for my sake if he weren’t around.  I squeeze his hand ever so slightly, suddenly needing his touch, to remind myself he’s still here and safe with me.  A chill comes over me, and I pull the blanket up higher to cover our upper bodies. 

 

I know I should go.  It’s risky to stay overnight.  But I just can’t bring myself to leave his warmth and go back to my cold, empty room alone.

 

I snuggle in closer to him to chase the chill and anxiety away.  It doesn’t take long, and I can feel sleep approaching. I glance up at his face one last time, one last look before drifting off, and am gifted with a smile on his face.  It’s delicate and innocent, and more carefree than any I’ve seen during the day. We’re up to 28 smiles at this point, at least. I’ve started to lose count. It makes me happy to see him happy, even in his sleep, and I can’t help but smile myself.  I wonder what he’s dreaming about, and my heart aches as I suddenly and desperately wish I could join him wherever he is and never wake up. 

  
  



	3. After Jezebel's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place around 1x09 
> 
> Nick and June's first time alone after Jezebels and their "break-up."

**1x09 before 1x10**

  
  


“Rita.  Could you come here, please?” Serena beckons from the sitting room.  She’d already finished her dinner, but of course doesn’t care that it’s Rita’s turn to eat.

 

With her fork halfway to her mouth, holding a roasted carrot she won’t be eating, Rita freezes then sighs, returning her fork to her plate with a clang.  She looks up at Nick, then at me, her face dripping with disdain. With another sigh, and a roll of her eyes, she scoots her chair back, not bothering to lift it up so that it scraps loudly against the floor.  These sounds and gestures are her only avenues for expressing her frustration. Even these would be dangerous if there was anyone else in the room but me and Nick.

 

Even though the three of us had not been speaking before Rita left, the silence feels completely different in her absence.  It’s the first time Nick and I have been alone since our...break-up. If you can even call it that. 

 

Break-up.  The word sounds childish...and yet, somehow also antiquated.  Like a relic of an older era where people did such things as date, hook up, and break up.  These things do not exist in Gilead. 

 

But I suppose our relationship should not have existed in Gilead either.  

 

Which is why Nick ended it...or so he says.  I have to make peace with the fact that I may never really know what he’s thinking...I may never really know him.

 

The silence feels unbearable.  It’s not like our relationship was ever based in much dialogue...but we did find ways to speak to each other.  Flirtatious glances. I would lick my lip and he would bite his. Secret smiles shared around secret jokes. Fingers reaching out towards one another on a table top, but never able to touch in the presence of someone else.  And, of course, there were the times when we could touch. Delicate. Rough. Lustful. Innocent. Soothing. Electrifying. Mind-numbing. So much touch. I never knew there were so many different kinds...All of which stopped so abruptly that day in the kitchen.  

 

Nick clears his throat, and moves his sad half-eaten chicken breast around his plate in circles.  I’d forgotten how much he used to fidget before. He’d gotten so much more comfortable around me, and had let his guard down.  Looks like the fidgeting is back in full force, and my heart breaks all over again. 

 

He taps his fork gently against the plate a few times, before dropping it altogether and pushing his plate away from him.  I expect him to get up and leave any minute, leaving me alone. 

 

“How are you?” he asks.  

 

I look up in surprise, and am even more shocked when I find him staring right back at me.  He’s leaning back against the chair, his right hand on the table, index finger tapping away.  More fidgeting. It makes me irrationally angry and I want to scream at him to stop.  _ It didn’t have to be this way, Nick.   _

 

But then I catch his eyes, and the sadness pooling in them.  His brow is scrunched ever so slightly with concern. For me.  

 

There’s a war inside of me.  My frustration tells me to ignore his question.  To ignore him. He doesn’t get to hear about how I’m doing.  He doesn’t get to know more about me when I know nothing about him.  

 

But then there’s the longing...to talk to someone.  Someone who has any kind of genuine care for me, however little it may be.  I miss mattering...and, though reluctant to admit it, I miss mattering to him.  

 

I hold his gaze in silence, neither side winning out quite yet.  Before I can decide, he breaks eye contact first, looking back down at his plate.  His lower lip drops, and he leans forward, closer to me, as if to say something else.  But then he bites his bottom lip, pulling it in, and sits back. I watch as his chest falls with an inaudible sigh.

 

He’s struggling.  There’s a war inside of him too.  

 

It softens me, and I sigh too, releasing some of the tension and frustration in my body, as my longing finally wins out.  

 

“I’m okay,” I answer.  He looks back up at me, surprised.  “Okay as can be...in this place.”

 

He holds my gaze again, then slowly nods, before looking back down at his plate. 

 

“How are you?” I ask.  

 

I watch as he opens his mouth again to speak, but then closes it shut.  He picks up the fork again, resuming his annoying tapping on the plate. And I want to scream.   _ Are you fucking kidding me? Really, Nick?  _

 

My own mouth drops open to let him have it, but he speaks first, beating me to the punch. “I’m okay.”  He pauses, biting his lip again. Then adds, “I’d kill for a bacon cheeseburger though. Any idea where I could get one?” 

 

My mouth betrays me with a smile.  The stubborn fuck that I am, I immediately try to hide it behind a pout.  But the glimmer in his eyes tells me he saw it. It’s my first genuine smile...since the last smile he gave me.  I have a feeling it’s what he was going for. Our little game again, making each other smile. Could we really go back to that? 

 

I look away briefly, staring at the window behind him.  “Well, Nick Blaine…,” I say, returning my eyes to him, “...from Michigan...maybe if you ask Rita nicely, she’ll make you one.”  

 

We both know she won’t.  Telling us to fuck off is more likely.  

 

He doesn’t react, and I worry for a second that he thinks I’m throwing his words back in his face.  Another part of me wonders why I care so much how he feels. My concern wins out though, and I add in, “Ask her to make me one too...with waffle fries and a chocolate shake.”

 

And it’s his turn to smile.  His first...since the last one I gave him.  It’s a soft one. More relief than happiness.  I don’t remember when I started to notice the nuances of his smiles.  

 

“What do you think she’d do it I asked her that?” he asks.  “If we weren’t stuck here.”

 

“Oh, she’d bitch slap you...like, for sure,” I say.  

 

He nods, and smiles again.  Amusement this time. “Sounds about right.”

  
  
  
  



	4. The Boston Globe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Boston Globe
> 
> I'm so desperate for Globe flashbacks!

**2x02 through 2x03**

 

It’s week 4 at the Boston Globe.  I spend most of my days walking these haunted halls, feeling eerily at home, like I’m back at the publishing house.  Pens scattered about like they’re nothing; words displayed on Post-Its in the open for all to read; coffee mugs on every desk, because coffee once flowed abundantly, and people drank it like water.  Each mug has a special insignia, quote, or picture, distinguishing it from other mugs, each one unique to the individual to which it belonged. We were individuals then.

 

For a split second, it feels like nothing’s really changed.  Gilead was just a dream. A nightmare. But then I catch a glimpse of moldy, years-old coffee in one of those mugs, left unfinished by its owner, who is now most likely dead.  New owners lay claim to the coffee, finishing off what’s left of it. And it hits me once again that my home is gone, the Before is gone. Gilead is still a nightmare, but not one I can wake up from.  The picture frames are now memorials for people and lives that once existed and have been lost to death, slavery, or — if they’re one of the lucky few — asylum in another country.

 

I have no pictures of my life Before...and then I realize I have no pictures of my life After either.  No evidence that I exist. Or Hannah. Or Luke.

 

Or Nick.

 

He visits twice a week if he can, and has been by 5 times.   It’s been nice to be together again...in whatever it is that we have.  We’ve never talked about why. Why it’s different for him now. I suppose we both already know why — the baby changes everything.   _Our_ baby, he’d said.  The stakes are different.  

 

I love that he comes to me this time, his visits easily the highlight of my day and week.  But I hate when he leaves in the morning...leaving me alone here, and left to worry about him out there.  Our roles are reversed.

 

We’ve only had sex once this visit, which is a first.  Maybe I’m starting to feel the first trimester fatigue...or maybe I’m longing for a different kind of connection.

 

I scoot my butt and back closer into him as we spoon on the couch, and pull his left arm tighter around my chest.  

 

“Are you cold?” he asks, lifting his head slightly higher, as if to see my face.  

 

I shake my head and answer “No,” but he pulls the blanket up higher anyways until it covers everything but our heads.  Like two pigs in a blanket...Hannah used to love those. When I would take them out of the oven, she’d dance around the sheet pan, trying so hard to be patient as they cooled down.  She’d always cave in, of course, popping one in her mouth, before quickly spitting it back out because it was still too hot. It started to become tradition...something I looked forward to seeing every time.  Something I captured on video once but no longer have. Lost with every other memory we’ve ever shared. My heart caves in on itself, my body curling up along with it, and I immediately regret following this train of thought.

 

“Where would you go, if you could go anywhere?” I ask Nick.   _Please distract me.  Please take me away from here._   _Anywhere._

 

I’m so used to vague or non-answers from him that I’m completely taken aback when he says “Mackinac Island.”  He answered. And it’s a real answer.

 

“I’ve never heard of it.  Where is it?”

 

“It’s in Michigan, on Lake Huron.” He pauses, and I give him some time, hoping he’ll say more.  “My family had a summer cabin there when I was growing up.”

 

It’s the first time he’s spoken about his childhood.  He’s only mentioned his family once since we’ve met, and only when I’d directly asked and only to say that they’d all passed away.  My mind dreams up images of a miniature Nick. Shorter, scrawnier...and happier. I pray to God happier. I pull his arm even tighter around me, intertwining my fingers with his.  

 

“What was it like?” I ask, wanting to know more about this mini-Nick.  I want to know him.

 

“The cabin? It was small.  Old. It’d been my grandfather’s.  But it was...perfect.” He lets out a small sigh, lost in his memory.  I can feel his warm breath on my neck, and somehow it warms my insides too.  “Joshua and I would stay up late playing card games and coming up with pranks for our parents,” he continues, quietly laughing to himself.  “We used to think we were so slick, staying up without our parents knowing. But I’m sure they heard us.” Another pause. “They were just letting us be kids.”

 

I can’t see his face, but I can tell from the sound of his voice that he’s smiling.  A wistful one — the kind only reserved for the innocence of childhood, when life was simple and small enough that it could feel perfect.  I pull away from his arms so I can roll over to face him. I need to see this smile. And, sure enough, there it is. His eyes are glazed over, far away from Gilead.  They turn towards me, and re-focus, his smile growing wider.

 

“Joshua was always coming up with these ridiculous schemes.  How he was going to get Missy Brady to fall in love with him, or swindle some money for baseball camp.”  He looks out into the empty space behind my head, his eyes glazing over again as he remembers, his smile the only evidence of this world and of these people he clearly loved so much.  I wish I had a camera so I could remember this Nick — a happy Nick, free of cares, risks, and sorrow. I snap a mental picture, and raise my hand up to his face, entranced by the smile on his lips, my thumb caressing their edges where they curl up.  I watch as they curl up higher with my touch, and then tremble softly as he laughs. I wonder if anyone’s ever touched him like this. Looked at him this closely. It makes me simultaneously sad if not, and also happy that I get to be the one. The only one.  

 

“Did it work? Was Missy Brady smitten?” I ask.  I just want to him to continue forever, so I can get lost in his smile forever.

 

He scoffs, and his lips move again underneath my thumb.  “I believe her exact words were ‘fuck off’.” He looks back down at me, with a twinkle in his eye.  “You would have liked her.” He laughs again to himself, and I laugh with him, both of our shoulders gently shaking.  

 

His eyes shift away again, looking back to the empty space behind me.  “Joshua’s plans never worked...I’d usually have to step in to stop him from doing something stupid, like jump off the roof because some punk dared him.”

 

He scoffs again, and shakes his head, still in disbelief about what his brother was capable of doing.  I watch as his smile slowly starts to fade, the corners of his lips flattening out, and his eyes re-focusing in the present, like the opposite of a Polaroid picture, the memory slowly going dark.  I feel his body shift against mine, uncomfortable now.

 

“That never changed, even when he got older...he had his schemes, and they would actually get him into trouble.”  A deep sigh escapes his chest. “And I couldn’t save him this time.” His voice is full of ache, trembling with pain and vulnerability he so rarely shows.  And I realize, with perfect clarity, that the only reason he never shared with me before was because it was too sad for him to bear. All of these memories.  

 

His jaw clenches underneath my hand.  My thumb continues its caress of his lips, where his smile once was, wishing I could bring it back.  Bring his family back. Bring his home back. But they’re gone, erased. I can’t bring them back...so it’s my turn to take him away from this painful place.

 

I move my hand from his face to his neck, pulling his head down towards me.  He closes his eyes and gives in, his jaw still clenched as he tries to contain his emotion.  I plant a kiss on his forehead, and then return my hand to his face, caressing it, helplessly trying to smooth out the lines between his eyebrows.  Eventually, he opens his eyes, hanging onto mine with desperation, still pained, but also full of gratitude, like he’s drowning and I’m the life preserver ring saving him from the deep ocean threatening to engulf him.

 

I pull his head back down to me, and kiss him on the forehead again.  My hand drops to his waist, and I hook my right leg around his legs, pulling his whole body tighter against me.  Why can’t I ever seem to feel close enough to him? I can feel his hand rest on my waist too, then his head falling as he rests it on top of mine, letting out another sigh.  I nestle my head into his chest, which surprises me in its warmth. He’s like a furnace, always so warm.

 

“Did you know my mom sent me to private school until I got into high school?,” I start.  “She thought the public elementary school around us was ‘shit.’ Her word, mind you.” His chest moves underneath my cheek, as I hear a soft laugh come out of him.   _It’s working._     

 

“I had to wear this ugly ass plaid green uniform that she hated as much as I did.  But she was right — the school was better. She was always fucking right. It drove me crazy.”  I shake my head against his chest, and hear another laugh from above. “When I was in the 5th grade, I tried to be fresh one day and wore my Guns N’ Roses t-shirt with my plaid skirt.  The [“Appetite for Destruction”](https://thedrop.com/products/guns-n-roses-appetite-for-destruction-cross-tee?variant=12419626139738&utm_medium=cpc&utm_source=google&utm_campaign=Google%20Shopping&gclid=CjwKCAiAiJPkBRAuEiwAEDXZZbV_3Dc8RcnK1eVoZJApVKtpNuK0IzbqR2ftci414ry3t69gSVQZPRoCdwYQAvD_BwE) one with the cross and the 5 skulls.” 

 

I say it casually, like it’s nothing, and I hear a scoff come out of him, and feel his head shake against mine.  

 

“What?” I ask.  He just scoffs again as if it’s obvious.  “Do you know which shirt I’m talking about?”

 

“Yes.  And I can’t believe you wore that to school,” he answers.  His words express disbelief, but his voice is full of delight, as he clearly enjoys this younger version of me.  

 

I smile to myself at how well this story is working.  “Oh, I’m sure you believe it,” I say.

 

He laughs, but doesn’t say anything.  I feel his hand on my waist pull me in tighter against him.

 

“Anyways,” I continue, “I didn’t have another shirt so they sent me to the principal’s office, who called my mom so she could bring in one from home.  Total over-reaction if you ask me. They could have just given me an extra one of theirs. I thought for sure she’d be pissed at me, having to leave work and everything.  And she was when she walked into the principal’s office. She was ready to rip my head off.” I pause, savoring the memory.

 

“But then she took one look at my shirt, and just started laughing.”  The sound of her laugh reverberates through my mind, and I start laughing too, chuckling against Nick’s chest.  “The principal got so mad that he kicked us both out of his office. We were laughing all the way down the hall and back to her car.”  I’m still laughing, the memory of our laughter somehow still contagious, across 25 years of time. Nick’s chest vibrates against my face as he laughs too.  

 

“She ended up taking the rest of the day off and we got ice cream.  I got strawberry and she got rocky road.”

 

And out of nowhere, a Mack truck of grief slams into me going 60 mph.  I never saw it coming. I can’t breathe and the sound of my desperate gasps for air haunt the air, replacing the laughter that was just there a few seconds ago.   _Fuck_.

 

I feel Nick’s head rest on my own again, and his hand pull me in closer to him, before moving from my waist to my back, moving up and down in slow, soothing motions.  I close my eyes and bury my face deeper into his bare chest, my right hand and arm clutching onto his back. For dear life. His hand pulls me in tighter, then rests on my head, cradling it against this chest.

 

 _I’m here_ , he says, without saying a word.

 

I keep taking deep breaths, trying to get ahold of my emotions.  Eventually, with a final heavy sigh, I somehow manage to finish the story, the previous glee in my voice long gone.  “It’s one of my favorite memories. She always worked a lot, so...it meant a lot.”

 

He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel his head nod against my own, needing no explanation.  

 

_It’s okay._

 

Neither of us speak for a full minute, like a moment of silence in honor of our family.  Ghosts. We’re the only ones left.

 

I had meant to distract him, but now I worry if I just ended up dragging him down further with me.   _Sorry, Nick._

 

I search my brain for another story to lift our spirits, something so ridiculous or trivial it couldn’t possibly make us sad, but he speaks first.

 

“So you were always a rebel, huh?” he asks.

 

I scoff, and pull my head away to look up into his face.  He’s smiling again — a bittersweet one.

 

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” he says.  I scoff again, and ever so slowly my face mirrors his as I start to smile too, my own bittersweet one.  His plan is working.

 

His hand slowly moves to my face, gently caressing _my_ smile this time.  His eyes and his thumb fixate on my lips, entranced just like I was earlier.  It makes me smile even more, and I watch as his smile grows along with mine.

 

My sorrow is his sorrow.  My happiness is his happiness.   

 

And somehow, in the midst of all this pain, he makes me feel grateful.  How is that even possible, after everything? I lie next to him on this old couch in this haunted building, and just marvel at his smile, the beauty of it, the beauty of him, and the beauty of what we have, whatever it is, and how we were able to create it in such a dark, ugly place.  As I get lost in his smile again, I snap another mental picture to hold onto forever.


	5. Stolen Moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment I desperately wish we had gotten in the show ❤️

**Between 2x09-2x10:**

 

I don’t sleep much anymore.  Being 8 months pregnant will do that.  Serena never followed through on that pregnancy pillow.  Of course she didn’t. Every time I think she might bend a little, she just becomes even harder.  More rigid.

 

So I lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling, letting the only part of me that’s free, my mind, wander outside of this room.  Ever since Nick brought me the news from Canada, I imagine Luke and Moira fighting and laughing wherever they are, like they’ve always done.  I smile to myself, and for a second, something actually feels right in this fucked up world. I’m glad they have each other...I’m the first person to know how valuable it is to have someone, just one person, by your side...  

 

Nick hasn’t visited my room since he got back.  Normally, I wouldn’t think much of it, given the circumstances and how much more difficult it is for us to see each other, but he’s felt more distant during the day too.  Like he’s holding back. I think back to that night, his last visit...

 

“I should go…” he’d said.  

 

“He’s the one…” he’d said.

 

_ I don’t want you to go _ ...I want to say.

 

_ He’s… _

 

_ You… _

 

I can’t seem to finish those sentences.  Even in my own mind, where only I would know the truth.  

 

I don’t know my truth.  

 

But I know theirs...I know Luke is risk-aversive, always has been.  He tries to downplay his fear, shielding it behind smiles, jokes, and lightness that is at times fun and at other times so blood-boiling frustrating that I just want to scream.  I know he is not one to take charge in a risky situation, to act rather than wait...

 

And I know Nick is.  All he does is take on risk.  More risks, bigger risks, until I just want to scream at him to stop.  He, too, shields his fear, but by downplaying himself and moving the attention to someone else.  To me...our baby...and now Luke — to anyone but himself.

 

I know who it was that got those letters out.  No matter what Nick says.

 

I start to feel antsy, and kick off the blanket that suddenly feels so suffocating.  I rise from the bed and find myself at the window, where I can see his apartment. I feel that urge to scream at him.  To draw him out. To make him talk to me. 

 

Without thinking of the risks, I pull on my red sweater and head towards the door and down the hallway, scheming as I walk.  Maybe I can throw pebbles at his door. 

 

I miss the days when I could just storm into his apartment.  When that space was his and mine, not his and hers. With each step down the stairs, I get more worked up, for reasons I can’t even explain.  I just want to scream at him. To tell him to stop taking so many risks. To stop being so noble. 

 

I reach the first floor landing and turn left towards the kitchen.

 

To stop putting himself last.  Because he deserves to be happy too, to be lov—

 

I stop in my tracks when I see a figure at the back door, who also stops in his tracks.

 

Speak of the angel.  

 

What was I going to tell him again? It’s like I was hangry, and all I needed was a taste of him, because all of my agitation is remarkably gone.  

 

“Hey,” he says, surprised to see me.

 

“Hey.”

 

Everything I had just wanted to say displaced with one word.  I wonder if it’s the same for him…Was he on his way to see me? 

 

All of a sudden, the wind is knocked out of me, like I got punched in the gut.  Except it’s my diaphragm and the punch is coming from the inside, as a third person is not sleeping and also wants to say Hi.

 

I brace my hand on to the kitchen counter and bend down to catch my breath.  Nick is by my side faster than humanly possible it seems. 

 

“You okay?” he asks, frantic, lowering his head to look into my eyes, his eyebrows scrunched together with worry.  His hands are on my back and my arm, lending me his support. Always his support.

 

I can only nod, taking in slow, deep breaths.  

 

“Come on, let’s sit down,” he says, as he gently guides me to the table and pulls out a chair for me.  

 

He kneels down next to me on my left, as I sit, and asks again, “Are you okay?” His voice is less alarmed, more concerned this time.  Always so much concern. His eyes quickly flash down to my stomach, helplessly checking for anything that may be wrong, before returning to my face.

 

“I’m okay.  We’re okay,” I reassure, finally catching my breath.  I look down at my stomach, placing my hand on the part that protrudes the most, where our daughter’s head is.  “She just wanted to say Hi.” I raise my eyes back to his, smiling fondly, and speaking for both us girls. “I think she misses you.”  

 

The pain of having my internal organs sucker punched is worth it when I’m rewarded with quite possibly the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen.  That of a soon-to-be father. I can’t help but reach out my right hand to touch it, always wanting to memorize it. His smile, his lips, his little mole, his whole face.  Everything about him. When I drop my hand, he’s looking back at me with the same awe, just as enchanted by the beauty he sees in front of him. 

 

I feel another nudge from within, more gentle this time, and catch the hint.  

 

“I think she wants you to touch her,” I say.  

 

“Yea?” He pauses, eyebrows raised.  His eyes move down towards our baby, full of the longing he so rarely shows, keeping his needs to himself.  “Can I?” he asks, sheepishly. 

 

It breaks my heart, his hesitation.  How tentative he is. Like he’s not sure he has any right...or a place in her life...or mine.  

 

“Nick...of course.” I grab his hand hanging at his side, and pull it towards me, placing it on the lower part of my stomach.  “This is her head,” I say. 

 

And that gorgeous smile is back.  “Really?” he asks, mesmerized. He laughs gently, as if in disbelief of this moment, not quite able to take it in.  

 

I smile back, and nod.  We hold one another’s gaze for a second, enjoying the moment.  My eyes fall to his hand cradling my stomach, and I slowly intertwine my fingers with his.  “Look what we made,” I whisper. 

 

When he squeezes back, I flashback to a previous moment, when we sat in this same position in this very same spot.  

 

_ “It’s terrible.” _

 

_ “No, it’s not.” _

 

It feels like a lifetime ago...Everything’s changed.  

 

And that’s the truth.  The truth I’ve been so scared to admit…but somehow doesn’t feel so terrible right now.  

 

How could this be terrible?

 

My eyes fill with tears, as they did that day in the kitchen.  When I look back at Nick, his eyes meet mine and they, too, are wet.  His body shudders and sighs to release all of the emotion within him.

 

He looks back at our baby underneath his hand, and I watch as he leans his head in closer but then hesitates, pulling back.  “C-...Can I talk to her?”

 

I lift my hand to his head, running my fingers gently through his hair.  “Of course.” 

 

He smiles nervously, then leans in, until his face is only a few inches from my stomach.  

 

“Hi, sweetie,” he whispers, as his hand continues to caress her head.  My heart clenches at the tenderness in his voice...he’d make such a wonderful father.  

 

Our daughter seems to agree because at the sound of his voice, I feel a kick to my ribs and grunt from the pain.  

 

“Jesus Christ, your daughter’s a fighter,” I say through clenched teeth, shaking my head.

 

He laughs, caressing her head again, already completely smitten with her.  

 

“Yea...I don’t think she gets that from me,” he says, looking back up at me, as he grins ear to ear, full of pride for his feisty baby girl as well as her feisty mom.  

 

I open up my mouth to argue back, but am interrupted by yet another kick.  It’s my turn to laugh — she’s not very subtle, is she? 

 

“I think she wants you to keep talking,” I say.  

 

“Yea?” Nick laughs.  “She likes me, huh?”

 

“She loves you.”  


	6. Safe and Sound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nick and June escape Gilead with Holly.

 

**Continuation from["Beauty In All She Is"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16953624):**

 

 

 

> _"Don't you dare look out your window, darling everything's on fire_
> 
> _The war outside our door keeps raging on_
> 
> _Hold onto this lullaby even when the music’s gone, gone..."_

 

I’d woken up in my room at the Waterfords this morning, 9 and a half months pregnant.  But I will shut my eyes tonight across the border in Canada, with our newborn baby girl sleeping on my chest.  

 

Holly.  She has a name now.

 

That’s how fast your life can change.  

 

I’m lying down on a dandelion yellow futon at an unassuming safe house in Canada, my back propped up by a pillow.  The couch is too bright, like something out of a Dr. Seuss book. It feels unreal — this whole moment feels unreal.  Everyone keeps telling me to get some sleep, until our transportation arrives, taking us to the refugee center in Toronto where Luke and Moira are.

 

You’re safe, they say.  Even Nick says it, and I know he’d never lie to me.  But I still feel too close to Gilead for comfort. My mind, my heart — hell, it’s my whole body — they all scream at me that something’s wrong.  

 

Because something _is_ wrong.  There’s one person who’s not here.  Who’s not safe.

 

Hannah.

 

My mind travels back to Gilead where she is, only God knows exactly where.  I’m brought abruptly back to Canada with Holly’s sharp cry. Her swaddle is coming loose.  I slowly sit up on the futon and lay her down on the cushion in front of me, re-swaddling her in the same gray blankets we used during her delivery.  Waterford’s blankets. She settles back down quickly, and I pull her into my arms once again. Only her face is visible from the swaddle, her eyes still swollen shut.  She may have been born in Gilead, but she will never see any of it. Her eyes will open in a land where she is free, and the first faces she will see are those of her real parents, me and Nick, gazing down at her.  

 

It’s the answer to our prayers for the last 9 months...So why aren’t I happy?

 

Because I’m about to leave Hannah..and that feels too crushing for words.  But the thought of sending Holly off to Toronto without us is also unbearable.  What am I supposed to do? How do I choose?

 

Holly is safe now, I tell myself.

 

But she still needs you...

 

But Hannah needs you more.

 

Holly will be okay without you.  She has other options. Moira. Luke.  

 

But Hannah doesn’t...Hannah needs you more.

 

My mind is settled — as settled as it’s gonna get.  I look up to find Nick staring back at me from across the room, as if he knows what I’m thinking.  He excuses himself from the conversation with the Canadian guards, and makes his way to me.

 

He’ll understand.  I’ll make him understand.  I can’t leave Hannah. That’s not an option.

 

He sits down on the couch, at the other end by my feet.  Before I have a chance to speak, he goes first. “June, you can’t go back to Gilead.”

 

 _Goddamnit._ Sometimes I wish he was obtuse like every other man, who never seems able to grasp just what the fuck a woman is thinking.  But Nick always does.

 

“Hannah’s still there.  How can we leave her?”

 

He nods, affirming my feelings.   _Maybe this won’t be so hard after all, convincing him._

 

He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out.  He bites his lip and runs his hand through his hair, turning his face away from me.  He’s hiding something.

 

“What?” I ask.  I watch as his jaw clenches, his eyes still avoiding mine.  Whatever it is, it’s not good. “Nick?” His eyes return to mine, finally, and I see a flicker of sadness before they harden with resolve.  

 

“We’re not leaving Hannah.” He pauses and takes a breath.  “I have a plan. I have someone who can reach her, get her out.”

 

I shake my head, not satisfied.  “But we need to be there to make sure it works.  What good are we in Canada? What if it doesn’t work?”

 

“I’ll make sure it works.  I’ll get her out. I promise.”

 

“How can you do that from Canada? You can’t.  We can’t. Luke’s been there for years and he hasn’t been able to do anything.”

 

Nick pauses again, and looks me dead in the eye.  “I’m not going to do it from Canada.”

 

My face scrunches up in confusion.  “I...don’t understand. We _are_ going back?”

 

“No.”  Jaw clench.  “ _We’re_ not.” Pause.  “ _I_ am.”

 

My brain doesn’t compute.  We’re a team. Nick and me.   _We._

 

He waits for my reaction.  For me to put it together, his eyes never leaving mine.

 

“We’re going back?” I ask again.  More quietly this time, afraid of the truth, of saying it out loud.

 

“No.”  He softens his voice too.  “I am.” And in case it’s still not clear, he adds, “just me.”

 

I stare into his eyes, looking for God knows what.  Something that makes sense. Something I can latch onto to change his mind.  But I find nothing there but resolve. Firm, unyielding resolve. While I was making my plans, he’d already made his.  Without me.

 

“No,” I say, grunting, as I try to stand up, even though my whole body screams in protest.   _If he thinks I’m just going to let him leave..._

 

“June…” he pleads, his arms reaching out to me to keep me seated.

 

I twist my body away from him, and finally manage to stand.  I wobble on my feet, and his eyes flicker briefly to Holly in my arms then back to me.  I stare back at him with my own resolve. “No.”

 

He sighs, then stands too, facing me, his hands on his waist.  His jaw clenches again as he braces himself for the storm he knows is coming.  Like he thinks I’m overreacting. Being unreasonable.

 

_“So fucking stubborn.”_

 

It pisses me off, and my whole body starts to shake.  His hard facade drops as I see fear encroach, his eyes moving down to the fragile newborn in my arms, vibrating along with me.

 

I take a breath and try to stop my shaking.  But I can’t, so I just start rocking Holly instead.  Swinging my upper body, side to side, as if she was the one losing her shit and who needed soothing.  

 

“Fuck! No! We’re staying together.”  My head shakes side to side, joining in with the rest of my body.  

 

His arms reach out again, desperate to comfort me, or to take Holly, I’m not sure.  But he knows better than to touch me right now. So he pulls them back in, returning his hands to his waist.

 

“It’ll be okay, June.”  He tries to comfort me with his words instead, and his voice, keeping his tone as even as possible.  Confident. Like he’s certain of his plan and its success.

 

I just shake my head.  He doesn’t understand. How do I make him understand? My movements start to slow as my anger recedes, replaced by desperation.

 

“You can’t, Nick.”  

 

“It’ll be okay,” he repeats.  As if the more he says it, the more I’ll believe it.  But he doesn’t get it. It isn’t just about him being safe.  It’s about us. Being together. We need to be together.

 

“We’ll go to Canada,” I concede.  “You and me. And Holly. You said you already have someone in Gilead.  You don’t need to be go back. We’ll go and be safe, and we’ll find a way from there.”

 

We.

 

It has to be We.

 

He takes a breath.  “I’ll be okay.”

 

_Bullshit._

 

“No.  I won’t let you.”  And I finally get just how hard it was for him to let me go at the Globe.  To let me put myself in harm’s way if that’s what I chose to do. Except what he did was even harder, because he was putting himself in harm’s way too.

 

But fuck that — he can be the noble one.  I’ll be the bitch. As long as he’s safe. And we’re together.  “You’re gonna fucking leave your daughter. On the day she was born?” I say, bitterly.

 

He clenches his jaw, his eyes flashing with anger.  But he doesn’t take the bait, and closes his eyes, taking another deep breath before responding, “She has you.”

 

“She needs _you_.” I growl, my agitation returning.  

 

“It’ll be okay.”  

 

“Stop saying that! It’s not _fucking_ okay!”

 

His eyes move back down to Holly.  

 

Then eyes back on me.  “What about Hannah?” he asks, calmly.

 

Hannah.  

 

My heart clenches.  Desperate again. My body starts to slow, as my heart feels heavy, weighed down by the gravity of the moment.  I stop swinging side to side, but somehow the room still feels like it’s moving around me.

 

“Okay, I’ll go back,” I say, weakly.  “You’ll take Holly to Canada.” But even I know that won’t work.  It doesn’t make sense. Nothing make sense.

 

He sees his opening, and steps closer.  His arms are reaching out again, but make contact this time, landing on my elbows.  He pauses to see if it’s okay, before gently pulling me closer into him. I keep my eyes locked on Holly in my arms, her head tucked into my chest, refusing to look up at Nick.

 

“This is the best way, June,” he says, softly.  He bends his head down to catch my eyes. “You know it is.”  

 

I keep my head down.  “It doesn’t matter...I can’t - I _won’t_ let you do this for me.”

 

“I’m not doing it for you.”

 

At this, I look up, meeting his eyes.  “Fuck you. Don’t lie to me! Please don’t lie to me.  Not you.”

 

And he looks me dead in the eye again, making sure I hear him.  “I’m doing it for me. Do you think I could live if something happens to Hannah? Do you really think I could bear to see you go through that?”

 

And I know he’s telling the truth...He loves me that much.  

 

And just like that I break.  My body crumbles, and he quickly grabs Holly from my arms, as I fall to my knees.  

 

At some point, he must have given Holly over to someone else because she’s not in his arms.  Because they’re wrapped around me, as we lie collapsed on the floor. Trying to hold me together, put me back together, like he’s always done.  The only one who ever could.

 

My brain seems to have broken too, along with my body.  It fades in and out, and I can only catch snippets of words now.  

 

“It’s okay.  I’ll be okay.”

 

_Not okay._

 

“I’ll come back.  I won’t leave Holly.”

 

_But what if..._

 

“I’ll get Hannah.  I promise.”

 

I can’t speak.  I can only clutch onto his shirt.  Black. I got used to looking for black.  Black clothes. Black hair. Black truck. Black became my comfort.  My hope.

 

“I love you.”

 

“I love you.” I think I said it out loud.   _Oh God, did I say it out loud?_

 

He wrenches my fingers off of his shirt, one by one.   

 

“I need to go.”

 

One minute I’m on the floor in his arms.  The next minute I’m standing with Holly in my arms, at the door of the safe house, with no memory of how I got there.  And I’m watching him walk away from us. Black clothes, black hair, fading away into the black night. There’s a guard standing to my right as a precaution, in case I collapse again.  As if he could hold me together. As if anyone else could.

 

I can see Nick’s lips move and hear his voice, but I can’t make out the words.  It’s gibberish to me. Nothing makes sense.

 

_Not okay._

 

He gets in the truck, Waterford’s truck, and holds my gaze.  I pray he’ll change his mind. Come to his senses and hop out of it.  Like I did at the Globe. Instead, like a dagger to my hope, he smiles at me — a small one, his attempt to to reassure me.  Pretending everything’s okay.

 

_Not okay._

 

It doesn’t make sense.  He’s smiling while my own face is caked with tears I didn’t even know were falling.  

 

My mind fades in and out again, and before I know it, the truck is gone.  

 

He’s gone.  

 

That’s how fast your life can change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY. There'll be a happy ending, I promise. I couldn't handle anything but a happy ending for this family <3


	7. Absence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nick's still in Gilead, while June copes with their separation.

 

> _I had all and then most of you_
> 
> _Some and now none of you_
> 
> _Take me back to the night we met_
> 
> _I don't know what I'm supposed to do_
> 
> _Haunted by the ghost of you_

  


I always thought when I’d escaped and was finally safe, I’d be able to sleep again.  I wouldn’t lie awake in the middle of the night staring up at the ceiling, like I did countless times in my room at the Waterfords’.  Staring up at the point in the ceiling where the light once hung, and where the Offred before me once hung too. A daily reminder of what could happen to me if I’m not careful.  I could break, like she did. Like Nick warned me I could.

 

But here I am...lying in a new bed, staring at a new ceiling, but still wide awake.  And still trying not to break. And the cruel irony is I’m breaking _because_ of Nick...at least in part.

 

There’s a window to the right of the bed, just like at the Waterfords’.  But I don’t have a view of Nick’s apartment this time...I never fully realized just how comforting that view was for me.  Just knowing he was there. He was close. He was...alive.

 

All I see outside my window now is an Indian restaurant with a red neon sign that Luke claims makes the best Tikka Masala in all of Toronto.  Who. The. Fuck. Cares. About. Tikka. Masala.

 

He smiled at me as he told me, as if it should mean anything but jackshit to me, and all I wanted to do was wipe that damn smile off of his face.  But I just sighed and asked myself for what feels like the 100th time why I seem to be so angry with him...

 

But I know this isn’t about Luke.  It’s not about that damn Indian restaurant outside the window.  It’s about what — and who — is not there. Nick is in Gilead, and I have no idea if he is okay.  There’s a huge chance he isn’t, given that he’s on a mission to rescue a child from Gilead, which is the fastest way to be shot dead on the spot.  My mind betrays me with images of him lying in a pool of his own blood, like the Martha I’d watched be shot in the middle of the street after the bombing.  My heart rate immediately spikes and my stomach lurches, like it could hurl what little Tikka Masala I managed to eat tonight.

 

My hands clutch the blanket around me, and I squeeze them into tight fists, desperately trying to ground myself before I really do throw up all over Luke, who is lying asleep to my left.  How can he sleep? I secretly hate him for a moment, before I’m consumed with guilt because I’m the one thinking about another man as I’m lying next to my husband.

 

I roll over onto my left side to stare at him as he sleeps.  He looks...so much older now. When he walked through the door at the refugee center, and I laid eyes on him again for the first time, he felt like home and a stranger all at the same time.  If I’m honest, he still does…

 

My right hand reaches out to touch the lines entrenched on his forehead, deepened over years from worry about me and Hannah.  Hannah, of course, is the other reason I’m breaking. I’m here safe with one daughter, while another daughter is still imprisoned in that wretched place.  What if he isn’t able to help her? What if she’s stuck there forever? What if he does reach her, but they’re captured on the way out? What if they’re both already dead? My stomach lurches again, and I desperately bring myself back to the present.

 

_Inhale. 1...2...3._

 

_Exhale. 1...2...3._

 

Rinse and repeat virtually every minute of the Goddamn day.

 

I re-focus on Luke’s face in front of me.  My index finger moves from his forehead down his cheek to his lips, where I trace the outer edges closest to me.  They don’t look different...so how come they feel different?

 

My finger continues its journey down south, moving onto his “Canada welcomes refugees” t-shirt, tracing the outline of the maple leaf, before continuing farther south.  When I reach the top edge of the blanket covering up his waist and everything below, my hand hesitates at the cusp, trying to decide where it wants to go next. It dips down underneath the blanket, where it’s warm...but it feels too warm, too much, and a tightness builds in my chest like I can’t breathe.  I immediately pull my hand out, resting it on top of the blanket instead. The tightness lifts but guilt returns, and I can’t understand why. My hand grabs onto Luke’s right hand, resting on the blanket, which helps alleviate some of the guilt. His hands feel rougher than before, more calloused from his labor work, and I’m amazed again at how familiar and unfamiliar he feels all at once.  

 

It’s strange and overwhelming, and my stomach starts to feel queasy again, so I roll over onto my right side, where Holly currently sleeps peacefully in her bassinet.  The neon light from the Indian restaurant shines through the window and casts an eerie red glow on her face that I hate. I’ve had just about enough tonight, and I sit up to move her bassinet out of the way.  My hands reach out, but pause in mid-air when I catch sight of the most precious smile on her face.

 

It’s Holly’s first smile...and hot tears fill my eyes and spill down my face, as I feel like I’m staring at Nick’s very own smile.  Because they’re absolutely identical.

  
  


My hands cover my mouth as I desperately try to stifle the sobs that just won’t stop, my heart breaking inside my chest, my whole body shaking.  He should be here to see this. Not in Gilead, trying to save a daughter that isn’t even his. He should be with his daughter here. He should get to see her first smile.  He should get to see her first everything.

 

I reach my hand out to caress our daughter’s smile, imagining myself caressing the smile Nick would have on his face if he were here.  Where he belongs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew - chapters will be happy here on out :) I desperately need a happy ending for them!


	8. Reunited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nick and Holly share a moment, after he manages to escape Gilead with Hannah.

   
****

> _Now and then there's a light in the darkness_
> 
> _Feel around 'til you find where your heart went_
> 
> _There's a weight in the air but you can't see why, why_

  


“You really like your milk, don’t you?” Nick whispers softly to Holly, as he cradles her in the crook of his left arm.  She answers with a snort, continuing to drain the 4 ounce bottle in record timing. Holly weighed nearly 14 lbs at her recent two month check-up, and Nick smiled with pride when the pediatrician explained she was already at the weight of the average 3-month-old baby girl.  Our pediatrician is seeing us pro-bono because we’re refugees, and _I_ smiled with pride when she’d asked how we’d managed to escape Gilead with a newborn.  

 

I’d answered simply, “miracles do exist,” looking straight at Nick.  I knew he got the message when he looked down, sheepishly, never able to accept just how amazing he is.  I looked back towards the pediatrician and said, “he got my 9-year-old daughter out too.”

 

Dr. Chung gaped at Nick, shaking her head in disbelief.  “I’ve worked with over two hundred refugees at this point, and this is the first time I’ve heard of two children from one family escaping.”

 

I returned my eyes to Nick, and gave him my best “see, I told you so” smile.  Of course he just looked down again, enthralled with his 2-month-old daughter.  

 

He has the same look of marvel on his face now.  The warm glow of the late afternoon sun shines through the window, lighting up his face as well as Holly’s, as I sit opposite of them in an old brown suede armchair, a donation from the refugee center.  Nick and Holly sit on a floral print couch, another donation, white and pink irises on black fabric. It’s seriously the ugliest couch I’ve ever seen but my brain doesn’t even register it in this moment, lost in the beauty of father and daughter gazing at one another, like they’re the only two people in the whole world. Holly drinking her milk, and Nick drinking Holly in.  That’s how he looks at her — like he can’t get enough. Like nothing could quench his thirst, his need, and yet simultaneously like he’s completely full, drunk in love, and life couldn’t get any better from this moment on.

 

I know that look because it’s the same one he gives me.  

 

Or, that he used to give me.  In Gilead. But he hasn’t since he’s escaped.  Since I’ve been back with Luke. Those looks are reserved just for Holly now.  

 

I have no idea what the future holds, but there’s one thing I know for certain in this uncertain world that brings me more peace than I ever dreamed was possible to feel again: Holly could not be more loved than she is by this man.  

 

She’ll be okay as long as he’s there.  That’s how I always felt in Gilead too — I’d be okay as long as he was there.  I take him in, staring longer and more closely than I generally dare to do these days, while he’s preoccupied and not looking.  His hair is slightly longer than it was in Gilead, or maybe it’s just more disheveled. He said he’d been napping with Holly on the couch before I’d arrived to pick her up.  It’s sticking straight up in certain parts, like how it used to look after an illicit kiss and I’d just run my fingers through his hair. Somehow, his disheveled hair is even sexier now than after a kiss, as I picture him sleeping on the couch, cradling Holly on his chest.

 

My silent reverie is broken by the sound of the most delicious gurgles and giggles, as Holly finishes her bottle and Nick delights in her ferocious appetite.   God, did he really just giggle? I used to relish making him laugh and am wickedly good at it, if I do say so myself, but I never made him giggle like Holly just did.  

 

“All done,” Nick says, his face lit aglow with pride. He places the bottle down on the coffee table to his right — a scratched up, Oriental style black and gold table, with white flowers again.  Even more flowers. His furniture really is hideous. But beggars can’t be choosers, can they?

 

Nick gently lifts Holly, his left hand perfectly supporting her neck, as he re-positions her on his right shoulder, giving her a few firm pats on her back, before being rewarded with a loud, satisfying burp that almost echoes in this still virtually empty apartment.  

 

His giggles fill the air again — God, I’ll never get enough of that sound — as he lifts her off of his shoulder, his left hand again perfectly supporting her neck and upper back.  He rests her butt on his lap, and they gaze at one another again. “That was a good one, Holly,” he says, tenderly. He lifts his right hand up, balling it into a fist before gently pressing it against Holly’s own closed hand.  “Fist bump,” he whispers. Holly coos and grunts in response, her black-haired head bobbing side to side, as she seems to want to interact with him but just doesn’t have the muscle control yet. It doesn’t stop Nick from connecting with her, his own head bobbing right along with her.  She finds it amusing, her face breaking into a smile and, of course, Nick smiles with her, his eyes and his cheeks crinkling up into a brighter smile than I’ve ever seen on his face.

 

And I swear my heart feels like it could explode out of my chest.  

 

He’s so good with her.  

 

He’s so good.  Full stop.

 

I wipe a stray tear from my eye and, of course, he notices.  He looks across the table at me, his smile faltering for a second, unsure of whether I’m crying tears of joy or sadness.  I suppose it’s obviously joy, because his smile returns in full-force.

 

“You’re really good with her,” I say, simply.    

 

His eyes return to his daughter’s face.  “Well, she’s pretty great,” he says, as his head starts bobbing again, mirroring hers.  

 

Flashes of images run through my mind like one of those old projectors:

 

Nick reading goodnight story after goodnight story to her way past her bedtime because he just can’t seem to say no.

 

Him teaching her how to ride a bike, frantically trying to keep up with her as she speeds away.

 

Him gently cleaning and kissing her “boo-boo” when she inevitably falls off said bike, father and daughter sitting on the ground, matching heads of black hair, as he teaches her how to get back up when she falls.

 

Nick and Holly sharing neon blue cotton candy at a local fair with matching blue teeth and smiles.

 

Him sitting side by side with her on her bed after the death of the family dog, comforting her wordlessly as he’s done for me more times than I can count.

 

I can see it all — their whole future together, unfolding in front of me like I’m watching a movie.  Every part of me wants to see it, and to be there first hand. To be a part of that movie, that family.  Taking pictures and videos of it all that no one would ever take away from me again.

 

But I already have a family...Where would they fit in? Hannah? Luke? How on earth could they fit in too?

 

How do I choose? Who needs me more? Who do _I_ need more? Am I allowed to think of myself?

 

Before Nick catches on that I’m crying sad tears this time, I quickly get up from my chair, turning my back towards him to hide my face, before kneeling on the ground to start packing Holly’s diaper bag.  It’s time to go home to Luke and Hannah.

 

“I should get out of your hair,” I whisper.

 

There’s silence, until I hear an equally quiet whisper back, “you can stay as long as you’d like.”  

 

I freeze, my hand clutching Holly’s toy links, or chains, as Hannah calls them.  And I wonder for the 100th time how he always seems to know exactly what’s on my mind.  How all I want is to stay with him forever. In his gaze. In his arms. In his presence.  In this small, near empty apartment with its mismatched, old furniture, that somehow has everything that I could truly ever want or need in life.  

 

I can feel the tears build in my throat and behind my eyes again, and I stay in my kneeled position, my back to him, knowing that if I turn around and see his face, and the sadness and the knowing look I’m sure are on it, I’ll completely lose whatever meager hold I have on my emotions now.  

 

Eventually, I unfreeze, finish packing and rise to grab my purse off of the chair.  I catch a glimpse of an object inside that I’d completely forgotten about. It brings a much needed smile to my face.  

 

“I forgot,” I say.  I reach down to grab the frame, pulling it out and admiring it, before turning around to face him.   “I have something for you.”

 

He’s still on the couch, but has turned Holly around so that she is facing out, her back and head resting against his chest, as she sits in his lap.  As I walk towards him, he moves his feet from the couch to the floor, freeing up space for me to sit down next to him on his left. I pass the frame to him — it’s a gray 4” x 6” frame I found at the flea market last weekend, with the words “daddy and me” written along the bottom.  In it, I’ve placed one of Nick’s first pictures with Holly.

 

He repositions Holly horizontally into the crook of his right arm, so he can grab the frame with his hand closest to me.  

 

“June,” he whispers softly, simply, sweetly.  That’s all he says, and that’s all he needs to say.  I’ve learned that Nick is most silent when he is most emotional, and unable to find the words.  

 

“It’s a great picture, huh?” I respond.

 

From the moment Nick arrived in Canada, we both wanted him to be a part of Holly’s life as much as possible.  He spent the first week crashing at Luke’s and my apartment until he found his own place, which also became a one-week crash course in how to take care of a newborn.  I was teaching Nick how to give Holly a bath before bed the day this picture was taken. Holly is wrapped up in a lime green dinosaur towel that was a gift from Moira, with brown spikes along the back of the towel all the way to the top of the hood covering her head.  Nick is holding her in front of his body, his left hand supporting her neck, and his right hand holding her butt, as they gaze at one another, similar to today. Her face is relaxed and curious after her bath, and Nick’s face...is one of pure relief and joy at having successfully given her a bath on his own.  He had locked eyes with me, immediately after this picture, and whispered the same “June” he just did — again, overcome, overwhelmed, with complete adoration for his little stegosaurus.

 

The frame trembles ever so slightly in his hand, and I look up into his face to see him bite his bottom lip, his eyes blinking rapidly, and I know he’s trying not to cry.  I wrap my arm around his upper back, and rest my chin on his shoulder, leaning my head into his until I can feel him rest his own head against mine. It’s the most we’ve touched since he first arrived, over 1 month ago.  But it feels completely natural...like coming home.

 

He sniffles a few times, and whispers a throaty, “thank you.”  

 

And I scoff that this man is thanking me for something as small as a picture, after everything he’s done for me and my family.   _This is the very least of what you deserve, Nick Blaine._

 

I reach my hand to the frame, and use my thumb to caress his smile in the picture.  “You know I used to count your smiles,” I say, reminiscing. “Back there...I think I got to 34 before I lost count…after Jezebels...”

 

With my head still resting on his shoulder, I feel his head lift up as he turns to look at me but I just continue marveling at his gorgeous smile in the picture.  He doesn’t respond for a few seconds, then laughs ever so softly and says, “27.”

 

My eyes scrunch in confusion, and I turn towards him as well.  “27?” I ask.

 

“That’s how many of your smiles I counted before I lost count…”  

 

My heart stops before ballooning up.  

 

He counted them too...  

 

All that time...he was counting my smiles too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up....Chosen <3


	9. Chosen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I want to see and read every version of June choosing Nick, over and over again. Here's one more ❤️

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> _But it feels like I've opened my eyes again_
> 
> _And the colors are golden and bright again_
> 
> _And the sun paints the skies and the wind sings our song_
> 
> _It's a better place since you came along_

 

I’d texted Nick earlier this week:

 

_“Hey, are you free on Saturday? Can you meet me at our park at 11?”_

 

_“Yea, I’m free.  See you there.”_

 

I got here early to pick a spot on the grass.  It’s still a bit cold for an outdoor picnic. Spring’s dragging its feet...but fuck it, I want to be outside.  I want to sit outside with him. On this lemon yellow blanket that sticks out like a thumb on this gray, cloudy day.  I don’t have to hide anymore. It’s safe to be seen, even if my body still tells me otherwise sometimes.

 

Even after 5 months in Canada, I still have moments of panic where my brain literally freaks the fuck out, screaming at me that something terrible is going to happen unless I’m able to stop it, but I have no Goddamn clue what it is and how on earth I can stop it.  It’s been a crash course in distinguishing between the truth and lies in my own fucking head.

 

But I finally know my truth.  I think I’ve always known...I just couldn’t see it through the lies, the fear, and the grief.  They clouded my vision, made me miss it, made it seem inconsequential to everything else. Once I got my family back, once I was safe, everything else gradually fell away until the truth was the only thing I could see.  And the only thing I want to see.

 

I check my phone for the time: 10:55.  He should be here soon...he’s always early.

 

And, like clockwork, I can see Mr. Dependable approach, 2 blocks away.  My eyes still automatically search for him wherever I go — black hair, black clothes, black truck.  Even though he doesn’t drive a car anymore and doesn’t wear as much black anymore either. He wears shades of gray and white, and loves his flannel too — who would have guessed? I miss the black sometimes...it became so comforting to me. And, I mean, have you seen him in black? Who wouldn’t want to look at that?

 

But today he’s wearing dark blue jeans and his black down jacket and I can’t help but smile at the sight of him.  Find someone who makes you smile every time you see them.

 

He’s a block away now, his eyes searching for me by the swings where we would normally be with Holly.  There’s a bucket swing that she absolutely adores, even though she’s only been able to hold her own head up for about a month.

 

He quickly spots me sitting on the grass on this yellow blanket, and his face breaks into a smile and he starts running across the last crosswalk separating us.  As he approaches, he still looks around for Holly, Hannah, Moira or Luke, clearly not expecting to just find me. Alone. Waiting for him. Only him.

 

But that’s why I’m here.  For him. And because of him.  Only him.

 

Nick Blaine.  From Michigan.

 

He finally reaches me and comes to a stop at the edge of the blanket.  “Hey.”

 

“Hey,” I respond, smiling up at him.  “Here, sit next to me.” I pat a spot on the blanket to my left.

 

He chuckles softly, then sits down, wrapping his arms around my knees, mirroring my own position.  He turns his head towards me and asks, “Where’s Holly?”

 

I can hear the disappointment in his voice, and I realize he was looking forward to seeing her — of course he was.

 

“She’s with Hannah and Moira.  Sorry, I should have told you it was just going to be me.”

 

He just smiles in response, reassuringly, letting me know he’s not bothered.  Then clears his throat before asking, “is everything okay?”

 

“Yea...I just wanted to see you.”

 

He chuckles again.  Like he finds it cute that I would want to see him.  Like it’s a reflection of how wonderful I am versus how wonderful he is.  Does he really not understand? Maybe the truth has been hard for him to see too in the midst of all the horror around us.

 

I look around us now, at the children and parents playing together on the playground.  Squeals of delight with every turn down the slide, yelling and laughter as children chase each other in circles around us.  When we first got to Toronto, I immediately noticed how noisy it was and how quiet Gilead had been. The sound of car horns, ringing phones, chatter and laughter on the streets were almost overwhelming.  It’s comforting now — they’re sounds of normalcy and freedom.

 

I catch sight of a family playing together, two parents enamored with their toddler, who clearly knows it, as she drags her parents around by the hand like a boss.  She reminds me of Holly and what her future may hold...which brings me back to the reasons I asked Nick to meet me here.

 

I stretch my legs out in front of me, then reposition my body so that I’m facing him, my knees bent to my side.  His head tilts ever so slightly, curious, until he turns to face me too, sitting Indian style.

 

I take a deep breath and start.  “You told me once that everyone breaks...And you were right, I did break.  Quite a few times actually.”

 

His eyebrows knit together, his eyes expressing his sorrow for me.  And probably blaming himself for not being able to do more.

 

He opens his mouth to speak, likely about to apologize.  

 

I interrupt, leaning forward to cup his cheek with my hand, and say gently, “I’m not finished.”

 

He closes his mouth, his eyes still pained, but he nods for me to continue.  

 

“I want you to know something.  I _need_ you to know.  The only reason I am here is because of you.  Do you get that?

 

He opens his mouth again, and I only need to give him a look before he shuts it, smiling softly in apology and nodding once more for me to continue.    

 

“I know you think that you were only doing the decent thing, helping me, and that you don’t deserve any credit for it, but do you really know anyone else who has done what you’ve done? Taken the risks that you’ve taken? Because I sure as hell don’t.”

 

I can tell from his eyes that he wants to dismiss himself again but is only refraining for me.  Giving me space.

 

“If it weren’t for you, I’d still be there, a handmaid in some other Commander’s house…” I look down, trying to contain the emotion welling up in my chest.  “I wouldn’t have Hannah. She’d still be there too...and I wouldn’t have Holly...one more daughter taken away from me.” I take a few deep breaths to get ahold of myself.  

 

He reaches his hand out to squeeze my own.  

 

“You would have found another way…” he says, then adds when I roll my eyes, “eventually...someone else would have helped.  I don’t think you realize how...inspiring you can be.” He smiles. “You inspired me.”

 

Again, making this a reflection of how wonderful I am versus how wonderful he is.  And he says I’m the stubborn one.

 

“I seriously doubt it...but even if I did somehow manage to escape...and somehow managed to find Hannah….and Holly...and get them the hell out too...” I say, giving him a skeptical look after each pause, letting him know just how ridiculous this idea is. “Even if that did happen…” I pause, my eyes drifting away, staring at nothing in particular.  “I don’t think I would have been myself anymore....You kept me sane. You kept me...together. From breaking apart at the seams, until there was nothing of me left, just an empty body with a functioning reproductive system.” I look back towards him. “Do you remember how I was when I’d been captured and sent back there?”

 

His eyes darken, and he nods.  “I still have nightmares about it,” he says, his voice rough, as if it haunts him, which apparently it still does.  I didn’t know...but I’m not surprised.

 

“I would have been like that without you.  I would have been Offred. Or Ofgeorge or Ofronald or whoever the fuck would have been next...You kept me June.”

 

He smiles gently.  “You did the same for me.  You helped me to survive too.  So...I get it. You don’t owe me anything.  Those were my decisions, my choices. I never expected anything.”

 

I nod in response.  “I know. I’m not telling you because I feel bad or obligated.  I’m telling you because I need you to know. And if I don’t tell you enough, it’s only because there just aren’t words to describe just how much you mean to me.  How much you’ve become a part of me, who I am today.”

 

He holds my gaze, and I wonder if I’m really getting through to him, if he’s actually taking it in for once.  Eventually, he sighs, and nods, perhaps accepting it...finally. He starts fidgeting with his hands, clearly uncomfortable.  

 

“I get it. I do...Thank you,” he says, sincerely.

 

I smile...how is he still thanking me?

 

“So what’s Holly doing today?” he asks, trying to change the subject.

 

I shake my head.  “I’m not finished,” I say.

 

He looks confused..and uncomfortable again, not wanting more praise or honor.  I swear this man would be more comfortable if I was yelling at him than if I was complimenting him.

 

“I have something for you,” I say.

 

And now he looks curious.  “Another picture?”

 

“Actually...yes.”  I reach into the picnic basket I packed and pull out a photo album.  It’s brand new. I couldn’t bear to buy a used one at the flea market or a thrift store...an album that once belonged to another family, a family that was possibly lost or destroyed, all of their memories emptied out.  I wanted a new album. Our own album. A fresh start.

 

I clutch the album against my chest for a few seconds, before passing it to him, his arms reaching out to grab ahold of it from me.  He pulls it into his lap and stares at the cover. A single tree embossed on brown leather, with the word “family” written under the crown.

 

His right thumb slides slowly, delicately, over the word “family.”  He takes a deep breath, still holding the album in his arms, unable to open it.

 

Finally, he looks back up at me, his eyes wet.  “June,” he whispers, “what is this?”

 

I hold his gaze and answer, “Why don’t you open it and find out?”

 

I can’t place the look on his face.  Maybe because it seems to be multiple emotions all at once.  Gratitude, sadness, hope, and I think fear? Fear of what’s inside...or maybe fear of hope itself.  It breaks my heart when I realize hope probably makes him sad too...Because I suppose he thinks its false hope.

 

He takes another deep breath, his hand still caressing the cover.  Finally, he clears his throat and opens to the first page.

 

I watch as a huge smile breaks out across his face.  “Is this you?” he asks, laughing. He seems relieved...relieved to be staring at pictures of me.

 

“I was able to access my old Google Photos account.  I guess not all of the servers were destroyed in the war.”

 

He looks fondly at the 10-year-old me, wearing the Guns N’ Roses shirt I’d told him about when we were at the Globe.  My mom had wanted a picture of it...I’d forgotten about that until I found this picture…

 

“Can you believe I found this?” I say.

 

He shakes his head.  “I still can’t believe you wore this with your uniform,” he says, laughing again.  His hand reaches towards the photo, but then he hesitates, letting it hover above, never touching it, like I’m sure he would if he was alone.  He turns the page instead, moving on to the next photo.

 

As he catches sight of the next picture, his hand moves up to cover his mouth, trying to hold back the laughter bursting out.  

 

“What is this?” he asks, looking up at me, his eyes wide with delight.

 

“This was from Spring Break my sophomore year of college.  I was taking a surfing lesson and...well...let’s just say my right boob did not want to cooperate with my bikini and decided it wanted to be free.”

 

“Why’d you black it out?” he asks, staring back down at the picture.

 

I roll my eyes.   _Men_.  Sometimes, Nick’s still just like any other man.  Obsessed with boobs.

 

One by one, he flips through each page.  Savoring this view into my old life.

 

Me and Moira, sitting on a picnic table, with two red plastic cups in our hands.  We’re wearing tank tops and shorts, which, admittedly, still astonishes me now that I once showed so much skin...I hate that I have that reaction.  It means Gilead’s still inside of me.

 

Me and my mom at my college graduation, our arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders.  It’s the most proud she’d ever been of me.

 

Me and Hannah at the aquarium, her marveling at the enormous jellyfish and me marveling at her.  

 

When he turns the next page, his eyebrows squeeze together, and I fight the instinct to reach out to smooth the lines on his face, just like I had done at the Globe.

 

He just stares at the picture of him and his brother by the water, the one he had kept in his apartment above the garage.  I snapped a picture of it on my phone one day, while snooping around his apartment here when he was too busy gushing over Holly to notice.  

 

“Was that taken on Mackinac Island?” I ask, gently.

 

He only nods, unable  to speak. I swallow the tears building in my throat for him.  

 

He doesn’t linger as long on this photo as he had on mine, turning the page to the next one.

 

His eyes widen when he catches sight of himself as a toddler, and he looks back up at me.  “Jesus Christ, June, how did you get this?”

 

“I found some of your old Google Photos too,” I say, my voice drifting off, worried that he’ll be upset and see it as an invasion of his privacy.

 

He just shakes his head in disbelief, not seeming to mind, looking back at the picture in shock.  

 

“I couldn’t stop staring at this picture of you,” I say, smiling across at him.  “You’re so precious.” He smiles to himself, seemingly more comfortable with me gushing over the younger version of him than the adult version in front of me.  He looks up at me, catching my eyes, smiling back. “And you have the exact same smile,” I say.

 

I look back down at the picture.  “Who’s that girl with you?” I ask.

 

“My cousin, Hannah,” he responds.  His smile gradually starts to fade, as the reality of the present encroaches.  I wonder what happened to her...I wonder if he even knows.

 

I brace myself for the next picture, what his reaction may be.  I debated about including it, not wanting to stir up more pain for him.  But then I realized the pain is there anyways, and if I don’t include it, he just suffers alone...and the thought of him suffering alone utterly breaks my heart.  He’s always been there for me in my pain...

 

He turns the page, and his mouth slowly drops open, like he no longer has control over it and gravity is pulling it down.  I can see his chest rise and fall, the movements quickening, as he continues to stare at the picture in front of him. One of his mother, father, brother, and him, arms wrapped around one another, 4 smiles staring up at us from a far happier time.  He looks about 12 or 13 in the photo. His bottom lip quivers ever so slightly, before he bites it, helplessly trying to stabilize it and his emotions with it.

 

I can’t bear it any longer, and I move to sit next to him, wrapping my arms around his back and chest.  He squeezes my arm around his chest, accepting my comfort, and lets his head drop onto mine. We sit wordlessly with one another, knowing no words would ever be enough to ease his pain.  Finally, he takes a breath and clears his throat, his hand lifting to turn the page before hesitating, fearful of what other pictures await.

 

“You’ll like the next picture,” I say, softly, reaching my hand across the album to turn the page for him.  

 

He sniffles and smiles at the same time, a small laugh escaping his lips, as he stares down at Holly eating a cube of orange for the first time.  Her whole face is scrunched up, her eyes squeezed shut and her lips puckered up. Her whole body had shook too in the most adorable way, and Nick and I had immediately broken into laughter.

 

Next is a picture of Nick wearing Holly at 3 months in a Baby Bjorn...and God, help me, I wanted to cry at the very sight of it.  She’d fallen asleep, her face tucked into his chest, barely visible underneath the polar bear fleece-lined hat she was wearing. Her arms are wrapped around his chest, and his arms are wrapped around her, cradling her bottom, despite the fact that she is perfectly well supported in the Bjorn.  His head is dropped low, his chin resting gently on her head. His eyes are closed, the world around him completely non-existent.

 

When I’d first shown Nick how to get Holly in the Bjorn, we’d broken into a fit of laughter at his endearing clumsiness...It feels like we laugh all the time now, whenever we’re together. I no longer have to try to make him laugh, and him with me.  It’s effortless.

 

I’ve taken control over the page turning because Nick just stares helplessly at each picture of Holly.  The next is one of my all-time favorites. I already have it framed at home, sitting on my bedside table, although Nick doesn’t know that yet.  He’s lying down on his bed, Holly lying next to him at 2.5 months, already asleep. He could leave now, but he chooses to stay, unable to take his eyes off of her.  I worry sometimes about whether he’s afraid to leave her, afraid something bad will happen if he does. But his face is always one of bliss, pure bliss, just like in this picture.  His hand caresses the back of her head, and I couldn’t help but caress his head too as I sat next to him, before taking this picture.

 

I’ve been out of Gilead for 5 months now, 4 for Nick, and he’s never once pressured me to choose, to heal, or to do anything at all except be exactly who I am.  I often wonder about why he doesn’t ask for more— doesn’t he want more? — but moments like this picture make it crystal clear to me that just having Holly and me in his life is more than enough for him.  

 

But it’s not enough for me.   _I_ want more.  And I want it with him.  Only him.

 

I turn the page.  

 

I’m ready now.  

 

In front of us is a picture of me and him this time.  Our first picture together, ever. It’s a selfie and, seeing as how I’m 3 years out of practice with these things, it’s an awful selfie but it, too, is also sitting now on my bedside table.  It’s out of focus and cuts off the top of our heads because I was laughing too hard to keep my hand still, but I did manage to catch our smiles, and his is just...

 

I can’t stop staring at it, it’s so beautiful.  It’s my turn to stare helplessly at the page, and Nick is the one to turn the page this time.  

 

Next is a picture of the three of us.  Him, me, and Holly. Our family. Moira took it at this very same playground just two weeks ago.  Holly is sitting in her bucket swing, with her polar bear hat again, wearing a navy blue puffy coat with silver stars.  Nick and I stand at her sides, each with a hand on her shoulder, as we kneel down so our heads are on the same level as Holly’s.  It’s her first time on the swing, and she has a look of thrilling wonder, enchanted by this new experience. This little girl was conceived, formed, and birthed in a world of ugliness and pain, there’s no denying that.  But she was also conceived, formed, and birthed in a world of love and good, one that we created for ourselves, there’s no denying that either.

 

I don’t want to deny it anymore.

 

I turn the page.

 

We’ve reached the last picture in the album.  It’s one of me, Nick, Holly, and Hannah, taken just last week.  Even though it was barely above freezing outside, colder than even Toronto’s normal standards at this time of year, Hannah wanted ice cream after dinner and Nick offered to walk her down the street to get some.  I decided to tag along with Holly in her Bjorn. We’re sitting at a table, Hannah sitting to my left, with Nick to my right, and Holly facing out on my chest. We were just goofing around and, at Hannah’s suggestion, decided to give ourselves ice cream mustaches, even little Holly.  Nick’s is salted caramel, Hannah’s strawberry cheesecake, and Holly’s and mine are chocolate. A woman at the table next to us thought we were so adorable that she offered to take this picture for us.

 

My hand reaches out to caress the picture, my fingers brushing across each of the smiles of these people who I love so very much.  

 

“Do you remember what that woman had said after she took this picture?” I ask.

 

Nick doesn’t answer.  He just releases the breath he was holding in his chest.  I scoot myself away from his side to his front, so I can face him.  So he can look at me. He doesn’t though, eyes focused on the picture in front of him.  

 

“She said, ‘Your family is beautiful.’” Do you remember that?”

 

I know he does.  Because it had seemed like it was a dagger in his heart at the time.  He still doesn’t answer now, but nods his head at least. He’s still avoiding my eyes.  

 

Does he know what I’m going to say? He always seems to know...I think he does know.  He’s just too scared to believe it. To hope. To dream.

 

I reach toward the album and turn it to an empty page.  And another empty page. And another.

 

“I think about us,” I say.  “What we could be.”

 

At this, he finally looks up at me.  His eyes wretchedly pained, begging me to stop and begging me to never stop all at once.  He knows what I’m trying to say...but he still needs to hear it.

 

“I want to see all of your smiles.  In this album. In my life. In my home...in our home.  The one we make for ourselves.”

 

I take the album out of his hands, and put it down on the blanket to our side.  I scoot closer to him, my legs underneath me, and reach for his hands, holding them in my own on my lap.  

 

“I want to be the one to make you smile.  If you’d let me. If you’d let me have the honor and the joy of being your family.  Your partner.”

 

I stop here.  I don’t think I could make it clearer than this.  

 

He lets out another breath.  And then another one. And another one.  Like he’s having trouble breathing. But he doesn’t take his eyes away from me.  Drinking me in, like the sight of me is filling him up. My words filling him up. My love filling in the void inside from all of his loss.  Full, and desperate for me, all at once. Like he used to look at me in Gilead. Like he hasn’t since we’ve arrived here. Until now.

 

And finally...finally...finally...

 

He moves towards me, taking my face into his hands, pulling me up off my legs, so that we’re both kneeling in front of one another, groin to groin, chest to chest, face to face.  Body to body. Heart to heart.

 

So we can be as close as possible.  But also because he never wants to see me sit on my knees like that ever again.

 

And he kisses me, open mouthed, not holding back.  Giving all of himself to me and taking me into him.  

 

Suddenly, he breaks the kiss, pulling away, although his hands are still on my face.  “Wait, are you finished now?” he asks, with a playful glint, amid the tears also shimmering in his eyes.

 

I laugh and answer, before pulling him back into me, “Love, we’re only just beginning.”  

 


	10. Epilogue: Snuggles and Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An ordinary morning for the people who deserve it most.

 

 

> _There are days_
> 
> _I wake up and I pinch myself_
> 
> _You're with me, not someone else_
> 
> _And I am scared, yeah, I'm still scared_
> 
> _That it's all a dream_
> 
> _'Cause you still look perfect as days go by_
> 
> _Even the worst ones, you make me smile_

  


I lie awake again.

 

But it’s a different kind of awake now.

 

For one, it’s morning.  I generally have no problem falling asleep now, and sleep soundly through the night.  I awake in the morning with white light streaming through Nick’s bedroom window. The sun is no longer an alarm, warning me of the urgent need to return to my bedroom at the Waterfords’ before both he and I get caught.  It’s no longer an end to those precious nights of warmth, safety, and comfort in his arms. The sun is now a beginning — the bringer of a new day. One spent together. Never-ending warmth, safety, and comfort with him.

 

I lie awake now from contentment and gratitude for where I am and everything I have to look forward to in the day ahead.  No longer awake with dread, fear, and grief around what I’ve lost and may never see again.

 

How did I get here? How is this possible? I’m awake but feel as though I must be dreaming.  But if I am, I never want to wake up.

 

I roll over onto my left side and take in the sight of Nick, who is still sleeping peacefully beside me.  I’m here because of him.

 

I reach my hand out to a stray curl on his pillow, slowly twirling my finger around it.  His hair’s definitely longer now. Thick black curls, just perfect for my fingers to run through and grab onto.  Which I do, every day...because I can now.

 

I wonder if he’s purposefully growing it out.  Because _he_ can now.  No need to maintain the strict grooming and garb required of Gilead guardians.  His long hair makes him seem more relaxed... probably because it’s so frequently disheveled unless we’re going out.  And sometimes, even then. He just doesn’t seem to give a fuck about those things.

 

It makes me realize how burdened he was in Gilead...seeing how carefree he is now.

 

Carefree.

 

Free.

 

We’re all free.

 

I smile to myself, again marveling at how this is possible, and marveling at the person who made it possible.  My finger moves from his hair to his lips, and I’ve barely touched them before they curl up into a smile. He’s awake.  But he hasn’t opened his eyes yet...maybe wondering if he’s dreaming too.

 

I quietly laugh as I realize I can make him smile with just the slightest touch of my finger.  That’s how easy it is now. No need for strategies and plans, like before, lying awake as I tried to come up with ways to make him smile.

 

When I laugh, he turns his head towards me, finally opening his eyes.  They hold mine for a few seconds, before I hear a sigh escape his lips and he smiles again.  Like he still can’t believe I’m here. Lying next to him.

 

He rolls over onto his side, so he’s facing me, and whispers, “Good morning,” his voice still groggy with sleep.

 

“Morning,” I answer, reaching my hand out to his hair again, above his ear, slowly running my fingers through.  He closes his eyes, sighing again, with the softest of smiles on his lips. Then he turns his face into my hand, and kisses my palm.  His hand clasps my own hand, pulling it away from his head and to his chest, where he clutches it tightly against this heart.

 

Somehow that tiny, simple gesture fills my own heart.  How does he do it?

 

We lie side by side, facing one another, quietly taking each other in, before Nick releases a massive yawn, still shaking off his sleep.  

 

“I’ll get you some coffee,” I say, with a chuckle, sitting up and scooting over to the edge of the bed.  I glance over at Holly, still sleeping in her bassinet. It’s probably time we transition her into a crib, but Nick asked for at least one more week of having her sleep next to our bed, despite the fact that the crib is just right across the room.  

 

As I stand up, I hear him whisper “wait,” and he leans his body across the bed, reaching for me.  His hand lands on my forearm, and he gives the gentlest of squeezes before pulling me towards him.  Back into bed, back into his arms, his legs intertwining with mine.

 

I laugh against his chest, saying, “I was just gonna get you some coffee.  I would have come back.”

 

“I don’t need coffee.  Just you,” he whispers, nuzzling his head into my shoulder.

 

I shake my head against his chest, but settle in.  Because we have all the time in the world. For snuggles, and coffee, and for doing abso-fucking-lutely nothing.  

  


****

 

Nick may not need coffee, but I certainly do.  

 

We finally managed to get out of bed, when Holly woke up and forced us to get up — who needs an alarm clock when you’ve got a 5-month-old baby.   We spent the morning getting Holly changed, fed, and ready for the day. By the time Moira arrived for her weekly Saturday morning visit with Holly (Saturday afternoons are spent with Hannah), I still had not yet had a cup of coffee.  Which is just not acceptable.

 

So Nick and I stopped by the cafe downstairs before heading to the Toronto Music Garden, our only plan for the morning.  

 

As we walk in, I’m immediately flooded by the smells, sounds, and sight of coffee.  All the coffee we could ever want. Flowing abundantly once more. Not rationed and regulated like it had been in Gilead.

 

The store is filled to capacity with men and women talking, reading, or on their phones.  All ordinary acts that are strictly forbidden just right across the border.

 

I think of Aunt Lydia and what she used to say: “Ordinary is what you are used to.  This may not seem ordinary to you now, but after a time it will.”

 

_No, Lydia, only normal is fucking normal.  Fucked up is just fucked up._

 

The line is quick and we order our drinks.  Regular black coffee for Nick, and a caramel macchiato for me.  

 

While I wait for my coffee at the counter, I watch as he grabs the last empty table, sitting down and opening up the newspaper someone left behind.  A young mother with a stroller struggles to squeeze by, and he scoots in his chair so she has more room. Her head moves back and forth, scanning the room for her own table.  I don’t know why I’m surprised when Nick stands up, offering her the table he just secured. She thanks him profusely and, of course, he brushes it off, just smiling down at the 3-month-old baby sleeping peacefully in her carseat.  

 

I learned a long time ago that this man is pure softness, which he was forced to hide behind a hard, stoic face all those years.  As I watch him practically melt over the baby, I manage to snap a quick picture of him with my phone. He finds his way back to me at the counter and is still smiling when he reaches me, so I snap another picture.  

 

“What?” he asks, sheepishly.

 

“Nothing...just wanted to catch Smile #169.”

 

He laughs quietly and I take another picture.  “Smile #170.”

 

He laughs again, then gazes back at me with a look of pure awe.  Like he’s mesmerized. It’s a look I’ve seen so many times from him, even in Gilead, but it still stops me cold every time, enchanting me in return.

 

He leans closer to me, as if he’s pulled helplessly towards me too, but then he hesitates and chuckles to himself.  

 

“What?” I ask.  

 

“It’s just...I just realized...I can kiss you now.  Whenever I want. I don’t have to stop myself...It still feels weird.”

 

I smile and nod in response, wondering about all those other times when he wanted to kiss me and stopped himself.  I wished he’d counted those moments too. Were they in the hundreds? Thousands even? So many missed opportunities...but never again.

 

“You better kiss me,” I say, grabbing his hand, pulling him closer to me, until he’s no more than a few inches away.  His head leans down, closing the gap even further, and my heart rate spikes in anticipation—

 

“—Caramel macchiato for June!” the barista calls out.

 

 _Fuck._  

 

Nick leans back, his eyes still smoldering.  I couldn’t care less about the coffee that I so desperately needed only a few minutes ago.  

 

With a sigh, I turn away from him to pick up my drink, and we start walking towards the exit, hand in hand.

 

We’re barely outside before he drops my hand to take my drink, resting both of our drinks on the window sill.

 

“What are you doin—”

 

I’m interrupted when he takes my face into his hands, pushes me against the glass window, and kisses me so deeply that I don’t where I end and he begins.  It touches every part of me, setting me on fire, and I can hardly breathe but I just don’t give a fuck. I’d rather pass out than stop kissing him.

 

But just as abruptly as he started, he suddenly stops, pulling away, leaving me gasping for more of him.  

 

“You wanted me to kiss you,” he says, slyly.

 

I bite my lip, and shake my head, still trying to steady my breathing and settle down every other part of me.  

 

“Fucker,” I whisper, in between deep breaths.

 

He laughs, then reaches down to grab our coffees, before handing mine back to me.

 

I take it reluctantly.  It’s the last thing I want to enjoy at the moment.  Who needs caffeine to wake up your nervous system when you’ve got Nick Blaine.  

 

And I do...have him.  I’ve always had him. And I’ll always have him.  

 

I take another deep breathe, to contain my emotions this time, as gratitude and love flood in for this man.  

 

He smiles softly at the look on my face, before tilting his head slightly in the direction of downtown, asking, “Ready to go?”

 

I chuckle and respond, “Give a girl a moment.  I’m still waiting for feeling in my legs.”

 

He laughs again, clearly enjoying his effect on me.  

 

“So, uh, this Music Garden,” I start, pushing myself off of the window and adjusting my clothes and hair, “how, uh, public is it?” I peek a look at him at we start walking, just in time to catch his smirk.

 

“We may not be in Gilead anymore but there are still laws, you know,” he says, taking my hand into his own.

 

I drop his hand and wrap my arm around his waist instead, needing to be closer to him.

 

“Damn,” I whisper, tucking my head into his side.  He laughs and wraps his arm around my waist too.

 

“You make me smile,” he says, sweetly, giving me a soft squeeze.

 

I smile to myself in return.   _Damn right I do._

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sigh...I already miss them. Come on, S3!! I need my fix. 
> 
> Thanks for reading ❤️

**Author's Note:**

> Come chat with me on Tumblr @dcgal814 😊 I never get enough of Nick and June
> 
> So much love to thismidnight and loth-cat (starbird) - I'm so happy to be writing in this dumpster with you ❤️


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